


Talon (kind of) Gets a Dog

by quartzapple



Series: Overwatch gets Things [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ensemble Cast, M/M, counterpart to overwatch gets a cat, people being nice do a dog, talon gets a dog - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 08:35:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14132259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quartzapple/pseuds/quartzapple
Summary: Talon gets a dog. Kind of. A continuation of 'Overwatch Gets a Dog'.





	Talon (kind of) Gets a Dog

There was absolutely no reason for Talon to get any kind of pet. Lots of reasons to the contrary, in fact. It wasn’t like they had a main base like the fledgling new-Overwatch did, and even if they did (they sort of did but no one would admit it) it was totally unsuitable for a relatively small quadrupedal lifeform. Which is why Talon definitely did _not_ have a dog.

Sasha was named after an old dog Reaper, back when he’d been vaguely more human, had known as a child. The old Sasha was practically semi-feral and took scraps like they were a gift from god she had to rip from his young fingers. She bit him once. The wound got infected. It was probably justified.

Sasha had a penchant for violating boundaries. She hadn’t been invited onto the base – it was barely a base, just an obviously derelict warehouse somewhere out of Rouen Overwatch had failed to notice because they were a bunch of idiots – but she stayed around. Likely because _someone_ had been feeding her.

“Sombra,” Reaper growled. It did nothing to cease Sombra’s actions; she continued in filling a bowl clearly meant for the dog – it had ‘petit chien’ surrounded by several hearts – with dog food before setting it down. Sasha carefully stepped forward with the air of a creature that knew deprivation. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Feeding the dog,” said Sombra. “What does it look like?” She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear. Reaper suppressed a growl. She did what she wanted, much like the dog. No wonder they had bonded.

Sometime later, Widow woke up to a presence in her bed. It wasn’t unwelcome – the conditioning she’d undergone had removed any possibility of terror at an unknown presence in such a situation – but it was…different? Hairier? She turned onto her side, facing the obstruction. It was hairy, for sure. Not humanoid. Definitely doggy. Something in her elicited a memory of sleeping with dogs as a very young girl, cold noses pressed against fingers as she slipped back into sleep. She let the memories take her. Logically, she knew it was the damned animal Sombra or whoever had let onto the base. As long as she got her sleep, it was fine.

Moira was…perplexed. Animals generally hated her. Something about her rated an ‘I’m about to experiment probably-fatally on you’ attitude towards small animals, but Sasha wasn’t small. She was easily a medium- to large-sized dog. She clearly had some Newfoundland in her, if the condition of her paws (slightly webbed, not to the extent a purebred dog would exhibit, coat dense enough, head shape in correlation with breed standards) said anything about her. And Sasha didn’t hate her.

All too easily, they fell into the routine of Sasha approaching her at her lab stations and resting her colossal head on Moira’s lap. By all means, this seriously impeded her work. It was impossible. It was almost like the damned dog – that Moira coincidentally rather liked, having been raised with similarly cuddly Irish Setters as a child – didn’t want her to work at all. Maybe she was a spy for Overwatch or that damnable Mercy. It was exactly the kind of abominably kind thing she might do when she wasn’t experimenting with necromancy or whatever-the-fuck she did these days.

Doomfist liked Sasha, and Sasha liked Doomfist. They were casually friends. If he was on the couch, her head was probably on his knee, whining to jump up despite Reaper’s admittedly weak ban of animals on the furniture. The lure of strong fingers in her fur was just too much.

It wasn’t like Reaper hadn’t walked in on every single operative cuddling Sasha.

The first had been Sombra. She’d finished hacking some kind of super important government agency for vital intel for about seventy two hours and was thoroughly exhausted. She’d fallen asleep in the communal area, a cup of tea on the coffee table in front of her and her boots and gloves discarded. Instead, her hands curled through Sasha’s fur. The dog, good-natured as she was, easily allowed it and had curled into the crook of Sombra’s body as she slept on the sofa. A warning look made it clear that she wasn’t to be approached.

It happened again with Widowmaker. Even though they didn’t seem close at all, Reaper caught Sasha guarding Widowmaker’s room’s door one evening. The sounds from inside were suppressed, but he could still hear cursing in French and things breaking. Sasha didn’t stop him approaching, but did nudge pointedly against his thighs as he stepped forward, causing him to reconsider interfering. After all, it was Talon who employed him. It wasn’t his duty anymore to check up on his agents. If Sasha was enforcing it, fine. Fine.

Neither Moira nor Doomfist seemed to require Sasha’s defence from Reaper. Whether it was their natural resistance to being mothered or the dog’s undeniable cuteness, he’d never know and never ask.

(Sometime in October Reaper got an encrypted message through a secure line from the Overwatch HQ.

It was Jack, curled up on a sofa with a tabby cat. It was a sofa he remembered; they’d cuddled on that sofa long before the cat had even been conceived, long before the schism between him and Jack had happened and it had all gone to shit. Seeing that familiar face, now cut through with scars, lips divided with lines and eyes still covered with a visor even in sleep, left him with a warmth in his chest he didn’t know what to do with. Fuck, it had been so long and he still had no fucking clue with what do with these feelings.

The cat didn’t move. It had clearly made its mind up about its feelings.)

For the next few days, Sombra snickered whenever she was around him and made kitty jokes. He replied with his usual non-responses and pretended to know nothing about Soldier: 76 or whatever the fuck he was calling himself these days.

Doomfist arrived back from a mission injured and spent some time in the medical bay, Sasha happily splitting her time between asking him for cuddles and begging Moira for her own brand of scritches.

In that time, footage of Reaper snoozing, mostly solid, on one of the common room sofas had been sent to another certain yet specific enemy agent. There was no response from the direct line to said agent, but a secondary line to another, younger agent responded with no less than two dozen heart emojis.


End file.
